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Wednesday, November 26, 2014

I'm sure you're already familiar with today's fabulous WWW guest since she's been on my site before. I featured her book when it was first released a few months ago and later on participated in her book tour. Once again, please welcome humorist Stacey Gustafson of Stacey Gustafson.com and author of "Are You Kidding Me?" to Meno Mama's blog!

I'm always excited to have this funny lady as a guest, not only because we are friends but because her writing is 100% relatable to me. When I met Stacey last April at the Erma Bombeck Writers Workshop, we clicked immediately since we both share the same sense of wacky humor.

Today Stacey is sharing a story from her book, and it just so happens to be one of my favorites. Why? Because this story could have been written about my own family. At one point, there were six of us living in a 1,600 sq. foot home, and it was loud. VERY LOUD. I've read this story numerous times and it still makes me chuckle. I think you'll love it, too.

Please welcome this talented, funny friend of mine to Meno Mama's site today with lots of love!

MY FAMILY IS LOUD

Like
fans at a Brazilian soccer match, my family is loud. I crave moments
of silence, seeking times I can avoid the thunder, everyone talking
at once, doors slamming, television blaring, kids fighting, general
noise pollution.

Saturday
morning, I peek at the clock; it’s 8:30 a.m. My daughter and son
are sound asleep. Tiptoeing down the stairs, I start my morning
ritual, I prepare coffee, grab a novel and plop on the sofa. All
mine. A few blissful moments of silence. I crack open my book and
begin to read the first page.

But
wait. I tilt my head towards the staircase. You’ve got to be
kidding. My husband should be sound asleep, he just returned from
a week in Japan. And I am certain the kids will stay in bed until 11
a.m. since there are no activities scheduled for this weekend.

But
there it is: Clomp, clomp, clomp. My husband decends quiet as a
Clydesdale. He mumbles a weary, “Good morning,” and reaches for
the object of his affection, the Cuisinart Brew Central 1200 Coffee
Maker.

He
shoves aside other appliances. Rattle, rattle, thunder, clatter,
boom. Then he removes the coffee grinder from the cabinet, dumps in a
cup of beans, pushes the top and whirls away. Like a buzz saw, the
racket shatters the silence. After 15 seconds, he pushes the top down
again for good measure. I cringe as he turns coffee beans into
powder.

Clearing
his throat, he says, “Want some?”

“No
thanks. I’m fine.” Why are you so noisy!

He
grabs the weekend paper, snapping the pages each time he finishes a
section. Snap, crinkle, crinkle, hmmmmm. On it goes, page by
torturous page, snap, crinkle, crinkle. He sighs to himself and
attempts to engage me in conversation about one sports story after
another. Trying to relax here, mister.

Still
on page one of my novel, Why My Third Husband Will Be a Dog.

Thirty
minutes later, like a herd of rhinos, my son and daughter stomp down
the staircase in search of food. A fight erupts over cereal.

“Where’s
the good cereal? What happened to the O’s?” my son asks.

Oh,
please, not the Honey Graham O’s. On a noise-o-meter, it registers
at 100 decibels, not recommended without earplugs.

He
pours a big bowl, fakes to the left, kicks the empty box into the
trashcan and starts to munch. And crunch and crunch and slurp and
smack.

My
daughter whines, “You ate all the good cereal. The rest is gross.”

She
rummages around the pantry, poo-pooing one box after another. Metal
pots and pans bounce off the shelf and drop onto the tile floor.
Crash, whiz, bang. I cannot stop my hands from shaking.

After
45 minutes, I am only on page ten. Can’t remember a thing. Must
reread. Again.

Briiiiiing.

“Mom,
phone,” screams my son as he hands me the phone.

Sally
from All Star Sports says, “The stuff you ordered is in. Stop by
anytime to get it.”

“Thanks.
And do you have any blue athletic socks in stock?” I ask.

“What?”

“Socks.
Do you carry blue socks?”

“Can’t
hear you. How many kids do you have? Sounds like you’re running a
daycare center.”

Tell
me about it.

Within
moments, they rush upstairs, yelling and laughing. With quivering
hands, I turn back to page one. In the living room, my husband
listens to the Wall Street on the iPad, high volume. Reruns of the
Warrior’s game run wildly on the television in the background.
Thousands of screaming, chanting fans. I imagine the house vibrating.

My
eyelid starts to spasm and head jerks to the right. He notices the
tics and asks, “Are you okay? Your eye’s bugging out.”

“Trying
to read a book. I’ll go in the other room.”

I’ve
heard that too much noise can cause increase levels of anxiety,
tinnitus and hearing loss. I head for shelter at the nearest safe
place.

If
you need me, I’ll be hiding in the upstairs closet reading.

BIO:

Stacey Gustafson is an author, humor columnist,
and blogger who has experienced the horrors of being trapped
inside a pair of SPANX. Her blog, Are
You Kidding Me? is based on her
suburban family and everyday life. Her short stories have appeared
in Chicken Soup for the
Soul and seven books in
the Not Your Mother’s Book series.
Her work appears in Midlife
Boulevard, Erma Bombeck
Writers’ Workshop, ZestNow,
More.com, Pleasanton Patch, Lost in Suburbia, Better After 50 and
on her daughter’s bulletin board.

10 comments:

Fabulous Stacey and so true. I only have one child but I go through the same thing every weekend. I'm the first to get up, love the quiet and solitude. But on those rare days when hubby and son get up before 10 am it's a noise fest complete with the coffee grinding (you nailed that one - and why the extra buzz the bean are pulverized you can't pulverize them anymore!). Brilliant...made me laugh.

Thanks for the beautiful intro. You flatter me. I wish Erma came around every six months. I could do with a little less noise and more laughter from like-minded women. Happy Thanksgiving and don't forget to take notes for the next story!

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Menopausal Mother

Musings on the good, the bad, and the ugly side of midlife mayhem. If you bring me wine and a large jar of Nutella, I'll be your best friend. This is rogue humor at its finest. Welcome to the nuthouse!